


to the brim

by stonedgeralt



Series: monsterfuck of the week [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Monsterfucker Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Other, Teratophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:41:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24235225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonedgeralt/pseuds/stonedgeralt
Summary: So this is how it ends. What a way to go: the great White Wolf, prone on the ground, swordless, helpless, at the mercy of a well-endowed wyvern.---Geralt doesn't know exactly what he wants until he has it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Monster(s)
Series: monsterfuck of the week [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749265
Comments: 26
Kudos: 255





	to the brim

**Author's Note:**

> There's an unfortunate lack of monsterfucker Geralt fic, so I've decided to take matters into my own hands. This is installment one of my first series. Completely self-indulgent, but I hope y'all enjoy it!
> 
> Many thanks to my good friend [Val](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valrosee/) for being a wonderfully supportive and enthusiastic beta!

As he reaches the top of the grassy knoll, Geralt keeps his eyes trained on the sky above him. It’s a clear, cloudless day in Velen. This makes it easy for him to spot any winged beasts that might attempt an attack from the air, such as the wyvern he’s been contracted to kill. The previous day, Geralt had found the nest startlingly close to Blackbough, where six people had been attacked before someone had thought to put a reward on the monster’s head. Blackbough’s citizens had been thrilled when Geralt arrived in town, a reaction to which Geralt is rather unaccustomed, and had begged him to slay the wyvern for a surprising amount of coin.

So here he is, sword at the ready, heading for the wyvern’s nest and hoping against hope that his… _urge_ won’t rear its ugly head. Geralt has spent more coin on whores in the past fortnight than he has in the past two months, and yet somehow he still feels this sense of raw _need_. It’s an itch nothing’s been able to scratch.

He’d even approached a man he’d seen dancing at the Passiflora and paid extra to fuck him. It had been good – very good, in fact – but it hadn’t eased the feeling of emptiness inside Geralt. If anything, it’s worse now, a panging, searing ache in his gut. Then there are the dreams. Geralt’s never been a big believer in oneiromancy; however, with the images his mind has been conjuring up as he sleeps, he has to admit that maybe there’s some validity to that particular brand of magic.

They started after he’d seen the man at the Passiflora. He’d returned to his room at the The Nowhere and promptly fell asleep. The first night’s dream had been an echo of what had happened earlier at the brothel: catching sight of the man, forking over way too much coin, and heading to an unused room upstairs. In the dream, though, it had been Geralt on his knees, with the man’s cock in his mouth. It had been Geralt on all fours on the bed as the man fucked him, and it had been Geralt scrabbling at the sheets and keening as he came, untouched.

Every night since then, without fail, Geralt had dreamed about being fucked. The man from the brothel made a second appearance, but after that, it had been random men he’d passed in the street, men who hadn’t even deigned to glance at him. Dockhands, guardsmen, merchants: it seemed none were safe from Geralt’s need. He’d tried to ignore it, and it wasn’t easy, but he could do it if he focused hard enough.

Until two nights ago, when he’d dreamed of a particularly well-hung werewolf that had been less intent on killing Geralt and more interested in fucking him senseless. Even now, as he cautiously approaches the wyvern’s nest, Geralt can hear the echoes of his own cries and moans. He can almost feel the werewolf’s matted fur against his skin again, its claws digging into his thighs—

Geralt stops short and huffs out a breath in annoyance, trying to compose himself. He needs to focus - this wyvern is dangerous, and he’ll be damned if he ends up dead because he was busy fantasizing about getting ploughed by a fucking monster.

He spots the nest in the distance, but no wyvern. _Shit._ It’s probably out hunting. Geralt hopes it hasn’t found a human – he had warned the citizens of Blackbough to stay in their homes until he returned, but there’s always one fool who thinks they’re invincible. He scans the sky for the beast and suddenly sees an enormous winged shape approaching, backlit by the sun.

Geralt sprints for cover, crouching low behind a wide-trunked tree. He watches as the wyvern deposits a mangled deer carcass beside its nest. It lands next to the deer, folds its wings around itself, and tucks into its meal, seemingly unaware of Geralt’s presence. _Good._ It’ll be easier to take it down on the ground. Geralt cocks and loads his crossbow, just in case the wyvern takes to the air. He coated his sword with draconid oil before leaving Blackbough. He has three doses each of Swallow and Golden Oriole, and four Grapeshots. He’s prepared for this.

Taking a deep breath, Geralt leaves his place behind the tree and advances toward the beast, sword at the ready. From about a hundred yards away, he tosses a Grapeshot at the wyvern’s back. It roars in fury and pain as it whips around to face him, eyes blazing, tail thrashing wildly. Geralt expects it to spit venom at him, and he readies himself to dodge. 

The wyvern’s tail stills, and the fire in its eyes fades. It sits back on its haunches, observing Geralt with what he swears is amusement.

 _The fuck?_

He moves to the left, gaze never leaving the wyvern’s tail – specifically, the venomous barb at the end of it. It doesn’t move, doesn’t even twitch. The beast watches him calmly, slowly turning its head in his direction.

_Maybe it’s been drugged? Poisoned?_

Geralt takes a few cautious steps toward the wyvern. Its purplish-red scales glint in the sunlight, and its red eyes track his movement, but it makes no attempt to attack. A few more steps – nothing. 

_This has to be a trap._

As soon as the thought appears in Geralt’s mind, the wyvern moves. He leaps back, brandishing his sword with a snarl. The beast rises to its feet and turns toward him slowly, in a not-at-all threatening manner. Its tail remains motionless, and Geralt sighs in relief.

That’s when he notices the enormous cock hanging between the wyvern’s legs.

_Oh, fuck._

Geralt suddenly understands what’s happening. He swallows nervously even as he raises his sword higher, still unwilling to accept the situation in which he’s found himself. The wyvern’s fangs gleam as it takes a step toward Geralt, who backs away. His eyes desperately flick left and right, looking for an escape route. The only way he could’ve gone is blocked by the slowly advancing wyvern.

He considers his options. He could charge at the beast and force it to fight; he could turn and flee, hoping to find shelter; or he could…

_No._

Geralt chooses to fight. He has everything he needs to take the wyvern down. With a shout, he sprints the short distance between himself and the monster and slashes viciously at its throat. The wyvern seems to have anticipated this, and dodges away from the silver blade. Geralt spins just in time to see a great leathery wing swooping toward him. He ducks and rolls, then charges at the wyvern again. He manages to hit it twice in the chest before the beast deals a crushing blow to Geralt’s side with its tail.

He’s airborne for a split second before his back hits the ground. As Geralt wheezes, he realizes he’s lost his sword. He fumbles for the Swallow in his pouch, hands shaking from lack of air. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Movement to his right. The wyvern is closing in, and all he can do is lay there. His potions, forgotten now, are strewn around his upended pouch. He doesn’t see his sword anywhere. His limbs feel like water and his head is filled with sand. 

_So this is how it ends._

What a way to go: the great White Wolf, prone on the ground, swordless, helpless, at the mercy of a well-endowed wyvern.

Geralt manages to push himself upright with a gasp of pain. If he’s going to die today, he wants to do it with at least a modicum of dignity. He assumes his familiar meditation position – knees slightly spread, hands folded in his lap – and raises his defiant gaze as a shadow falls over him.

The wyvern towers above him, red eyes blazing, and… coos? 

_Just kill me and get on with it._

Instead of that, the wyvern shuffles closer, almost shyly. Gods, its cock is _huge,_ as long and thick as Geralt’s forearm. Geralt inhales sharply as his urge to touch-taste-take rises in him suddenly. _No, no, fuck, no._ His hands tremble slightly in his lap. 

The wyvern is inches from him now. Geralt observes the iridescence of its scales, its powerful wings, the tail that almost snapped him in half. The beast’s cock twitches under his gaze, and it’s all Geralt can do to keep from drooling. He wants it, wants it badly, wants it _now._

Geralt lets his mouth fall open then, an invitation. The wyvern seizes its opportunity and closes the short distance between them. Geralt can feel the heat of its cock against his face; he shivers, opening his mouth wider and meeting the monster’s piercing gaze.

Before Geralt can take a breath, the wyvern’s pushing into his mouth, stretching his lips around its girth. It presses in until it hits the back of his throat. Geralt’s eyes roll back at the sensation, and he moans before he can stop himself. It seems to please the wyvern, and Geralt feels pressure at the back of his head, pushing him forward, forcing him to take more. He moans again, louder this time, because _fuck,_ this is what he’s needed the whole time: to be filled to the brim and then some. The ache in his gut has dissolved completely and been replaced by raw desire to be used, to be stuffed full by something bigger and stronger than himself.

The wyvern pulls back, then shoves itself into the wet heat of Geralt’s mouth again. Geralt can feel its cock distending his throat as it pushes ever deeper. Tears form at the corners of his eyes and spill down his flushed cheeks. He’ll never be able to take all of it this way, but gods, he wishes he could. Above him, the wyvern makes a satisfied sound and begins thrusting in earnest.

Geralt’s so hard that it hurts, his own cock straining against too-tight trousers. He clumsily undoes the fastening and frees himself, gasping as cool air hits the wet, aching head of his dick. He’s dizzy with the realization that he’s already close, that even the gentlest touch could send him over the edge. Geralt settles his hands back in his lap, ignoring his leaking cock in favor of trying his damndest to take more of the wyvern.

Suddenly, the pressure on his head is gone, and his mouth is empty. In front of him, the wyvern’s cock glistens with his saliva, and Geralt whines hoarsely, unable to help himself. He meets its gaze, and somehow understands what it wants him to do. He leans back and wriggles out of his trousers, then tosses them aside, splaying his legs wide. 

Geralt knows this is to going to fucking _hurt,_ but he can’t be bothered to care. Not now, when he’s so close to getting what he wants. The wyvern doesn’t seem concerned about his comfort - why would it be? - as it presses itself firmly against his entrance. Geralt’s hips buck and he gasps, brushing away sweat-damp hair from his face. He props himself up on his elbows. He wants to see this, wants the moment this massive cock breaches him ingrained in his memory.

He cries out as the wyvern enters him, pushing past his barrier like it’s nonexistent. Geralt’s fingers curl tightly into the warm grass and he throws his head back. He tries to focus on relaxing his body. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he watches as the wyvern’s spit-slick cock disappears inside of him, inch by burning inch, until its pelvis is pressed against his ass. 

He’s so _full._

Geralt moans wantonly as the wyvern starts moving, fucking him at a brutal pace that would rend anyone else into pieces. When he sees his stomach bulging in time with its thrusts, Geralt howls a curse and comes _hard,_ his back arching off the ground. The wyvern continues fucking him, somehow moving faster than before. Geralt doesn’t know how much more he can take, but he wants to find out. He’s panting and covered in sweat and come. He knows nothing about a wyvern’s libido, how long they can last.

He gets his answer only minutes later. The beast’s thrusts falter, and it comes with a piercing, inhuman shriek. Geralt feels every twitch of its cock as it fills him. There’s a lewd squelching sound as the wyvern pulls out, and it makes Geralt shudder. Come leaks from him, running down his ass in thick rivulets to pool on the ground below.

The wyvern moves slowly away from him, stumbling as if it’s drunk. Geralt tries to focus on breathing evenly and not on what’s just happened. He turns his head to the side, closing his eyes briefly at the feeling of the grass against his too-warm face. As he watches the wyvern heading for its nest, Geralt spots something glinting in the sunlight a few yards away.

His sword.

Geralt glances at the hulking form of the wyvern, now settled into its nest and seemingly asleep. Willing his body to move, he rolls onto his stomach, then pushes himself to his knees. He hisses at the stinging and burning in his lower half, and stifles a moan as more come drips from his hole. He crawls toward his sword, eyes never leaving the wyvern. When he has the sword in his hand, Geralt forces himself to stand and move toward the sleeping monster.

As he approaches, the wyvern doesn’t stir. Geralt’s progress is slow: His entire body aches and every step makes it worse. Finally, he’s within range. He raises his sword above his head and brings it down on the wyvern’s jugular. Its eyes fly open and it tries to rise, but Geralt swings his sword again, and again, until he’s covered in blood and scales and the wyvern is lifeless below him.

Geralt swipes the back of his hand across his face and spits blood into the grass. He makes the trek back across the hill to retrieve his pants, then gathers his potions into his pouch. He’ll come back for the wyvern’s head later, after he’s cleaned himself up and had time to meditate. Geralt can hear a stream nearby. He makes his way toward it, turning away from the bloody carcass.

When Geralt returns to Blackbough with the wyvern’s head, he’s received with open arms and open coin purses. He makes more on this contract than he’s made on the last several combined. _It’s only fair, considering what I went through to kill the damned thing._ As he leaves the town behind him, Geralt replays what had happened in his head. Despite having meditated, his lower body is still incredibly sore, and his throat stings with every breath. But the ache he’s carried with him in his gut is gone.

He wonders when it will return.

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me on Twitter [@stonedgeralt](https://twitter.com/stonedgeralt)!


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